


autumn leaves

by allonsytastic



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Human AU, Hurt No Comfort, I can only apologize, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8884843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytastic/pseuds/allonsytastic
Summary: The day each and every creature on this lonely little planet is waiting for.





	

He's sifting through the newspaper - bored enough to venture to the dreaded back pages, not so desperate as to actually consider reading the _'Top 5 Fun Holiday Activities With Yarn'_. Flipping the page, his gaze is caught by a black-and-white photograph of a young woman. She's been cropped out of a group picture. Her eyes are focused on a point just over the photographer's shoulder, hands frozen mid-gesture as a bright smile is spreading across her face. Her eyes are kind and even though there is no colour in the picture, John just knows that they are a perfect, warm shade of brown.

He can't seem to take his eyes off the woman's picture. She's got dimples, barely visible in the grainy picture but nonetheless mesmerizing. Her hair is cut to shoulder length, tucked behinder her ear save for a stubborn stray strand falling across her forehead. John doesn't much care for looks but - quite to his own surprise - his brain has decided that this stranger's photograph depicts the epitome of perfection.

As he is reflecting upon the image, an unexpected wave of familiarity rushes through him - the tips of his fingers are tingling and his cheeks feel like they are burning up. A shiver runs down his spine and there's a sudden rush of energy, unlike anything he ever experienced before, as his senses are inexplicably overloading his synapses with unprocessable amounts of information.

He finally spots it in the bottom right corner of the picture, astoished at having missed it at first glance. A circular mark of fine, intricate lines is spreading across her left shoulder, the black-and-white picture showing a perfect copy of the soulmark imprinted on John's right - black ink running across his pale skin.

 

* * *

There's a black frame enclosing the picture. A name and two dates are noted beside it, an entire life reduced to the hyphen in between:

_Clara Oswald_

_23.11.1986 - 21.11.2015_

John chokes up when realization hits him, the smile wiped from his face as reality comes crashing down upon him - burying him, pushing down on him - forcing the air from his lungs.

_The day you find your soulmate._ It _should_ be the brightest day of your existence. It _should_ be the day you would later on remember fondly as the beginning of a new life. All the fantastic stories John read as a child, all the movies and popular songs, the lurid advertisement along the subway tracks - they've promised him eternal happiness and sunshine from this day on.  _The day you find your soulmate - the day everything changes for the better. The day everything comes together and life finally makes sense. The day each and every creature on this lonely little planet is waiting for from the moment of their conception._

A single tear runs along his cheek, dripping down onto the paper. His fingers trace the black outline surrounding her photograph. There is writing beneath but John refuses to read it, holding on for just one more moment.

_It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of our beloved daugher and friend_

He doesn't bother wiping the tears from his eyes, unable to force himself to read on.

* * *

 

He doesn't attend the funeral. He barely dares to visit the grave two days after, hesitantly making his way across the graveyard, a single white rose in his hands. He doesn't have to look for it - there's a freshly covered grave, floral bouquets covering the ground, slowly wasting away.

He haltingly unfolds the paper he carried in the inside pocket of his coat. His hands are shaky but the rendering of her - _their_ \- soulmark he lays down at her grave has been traced with the utmost care, each line in place, elegantly drawn and precise.

Solemnly placing it against the headstone, a ragged breath escapes him. His voice breaks as he speaks her name for the first - and final - time.

_Clara Oswald, how I should have loved to know you._


End file.
